


And he who held her held also in his hand flames

by moemachina



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21917407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moemachina/pseuds/moemachina
Summary: John Wick is good at getting the lids off pickle jars.The pickle jars mean a lot to Helen, and Helen does not even like pickles.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Comments: 15
Kudos: 130
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	And he who held her held also in his hand flames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/gifts).



> The title comes from good old Dante.

John Wick is good at getting the lids off pickle jars.

If Helen had written her own wedding vows -- which she didn’t, because of course they had gotten married in the county courthouse on a Tuesday afternoon in a flurry of dryly bureaucratic paperwork, and both John and Helen had just recited the standard vows that the clerk handed them -- but if Helen had written her own original wedding vows, she might have included the pickle jars in her vows.

The pickle jars mean a lot to Helen, and Helen does not even like pickles.

John’s impressive ability to open jars -- jars of pickles, jars of salsa, jars of tomato sauce -- comes from a combination of factors. It is not that John is strong. (Although, of course, John is strong; when they come home from the farmer’s market, John is always carrying three or four tote bags filled with potatoes or squash or jars of pickles, and he always says that he’s not tired, that they’re not heavy, even though Helen knows that must be untrue.) Partly, John has long flexible fingers that can span the entire length of even the widest lid. (And Helen loves to watch his hands while he’s unscrewing a tough lid; she loves to look at the hair dusting his first thumb knuckle and the delicate length of his index finger.) Partly, John has a good sense of physics: he’ll make sure his hands are dry and the lid is clean. Mostly, however, John is patient. He does not strain against a difficult jar lid. Instead, he applies a steady, inexorable pressure. He does not hurry. He always gives the appearance that he would be happy to spend the next three days in this exact position, gentle and implacable, gripping a lid until it finally relents.

Helen does not care about strength. A merely strong person would never be able to open a pickle jar with such resolute determination. Rather than strength, the thing that Helen admires -- the thing that made her fall in love with John in the very beginning -- is discipline.

Of course, discipline cuts both way. John is the most rigorously upright person she knows. Frequently, this makes him a pain in the ass.

(She might have phrased this part differently in her wedding vows, had she written them.)

Once, when Helen had accidentally walked off with a pen from the bank in her purse, John insisted on turning around and walking back two miles to return the purloined pen. Once, when John had returned library books that were overdue by two months, he had insisted on paying the amount due, despite the librarian’s cheerfully conspiratorial attempt to forgive his fine.

The librarian knows John through Helen; she and Helen are in a book club together, and she is the one who tells Helen this story. _I've never known anyone so grimly dedicated to paying a library fine_ , the librarian says as she stirs a packet of sugar into her coffee. They are in a cafe, and Helen can see, behind the librarian, the barista fiddling with the espresso machine. It is a nice day. _It was like paying that fine was John's destiny or something._

 _Yeah, John is like that_ , Helen says automatically, without quite knowing what trait she is ascribing to John. Behind the librarian, someone is talking to the barista. Helen thinks for a minute. _Scrupulous. John is scrupulous._

The barista disappears from view, and the mugs hanging over the espresso machine clink together, as if something has just knocked against the base of the wooden shelving. 

The librarian laughs. _Well, we're always glad to get our books back. Tell John that I appreciate it._

Two large men wearing knit beanies are passing behind the cafe's counter, and as they pass through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchens, Helen can see that the two men are carrying between them an enormous bundle wrapped in a blue tarp. For a moment, she feels a flicker of confusion, almost distress, and the cafe seems suddenly full of shadows -- and then the librarian says, with a trace of envy, _It must be nice having a husband who remembers to do things._

Helen smiles. The kitchen doors swing shut. The sun seems to come out from where it was hiding, and it is a nice day once again. _John definitely keeps track of things. Which can be good and bad._

The librarian laughs. _Does he buy birthday gifts for his mother by himself, or does he make you do it?_

 _John is good at gifts_ , Helen says vaguely, because she has never met John's mother. 

Helen knows that John would tell her about his mother, if Helen asked. John would tell her anything, if Helen asked. He does not lie as a rule, and he especially does not lie to Helen. All Helen needs to do is open her mouth and say, _John, tell me about your tattoos_ , and she knows that John will solemnly explain the meaning behind every single one: the cross, the hands, the bad Latin about luck. Helen can ask, _John, where did all your money come from_ , and John will spare no detail. Helen need merely ask, _John, what have you done_ , and John will make no evasion. Helen need merely ask and listen and have her eyes opened forever.

Helen keeps her mouth shut.

She loves John, both in sickness and in health, according to the pre-fab marriage vows they both read aloud when they got married. Helen thinks about that phrase sometimes. She thinks about all the things that it implies. 

Once, when John and Helen had been driving somewhere, a red Corvette had cut them off, and John’s hands had tightened around the steering wheel, and he had accelerated and passed the red Corvette and shifted lanes right in front of the car, and the red Corvette had emitted an enraged honk and raced ahead to cut them off again as John squared his shoulders behind the wheel with murder in his eyes and -- and Helen had said, _John, cut it out_.

He had taken a deep breath -- and then said, _yeah, okay_ , and released the gas pedal, and the furious red Corvette had zipped out of sight. _Sorry_ , he said. A pause. _But that other guy was an asshole, right?_

 _That other guy was a complete asshole_ , Helen had said warmly. _I’ve never seen such an asshole before._

 _Yeah_ , John had said.

 _That guy probably has a mug at home that says World’s Greatest Asshole,_ Helen had said.

 _Yeah_ , John had said, turning on the left blinker to make the turn toward their home, and then he gave a deep throaty chuckle. _A mug, Helen?_

_A mug, John._

_World’s Greatest Asshole_ , he had said again with deep pleasure, and Helen knew that he would spend the rest of the day enjoying this single dumb joke. _That’s a good one, Helen._

Helen loves many things about John. Naturally, she loves the obvious things, the physical and tactile things. She loves the way he smells. She loves the tips of his wet hair when he comes out of the shower. She loves the delicacy of his ankle bones.

She does not entirely love his mania for constant photography, the fact that after she gives him a fancy cellphone, he spends his time taking guerrilla photos of her. She does not entirely love that his camera roll is filled with hundreds of variations of the same image: her face, slightly out of focus, as she looks out a window or reads the newspaper or drinks a cup of coffee.

 _This looks like the work of a serial killer_ , she observes one morning. They are in bed, and John is showing her an endless slideshow of herself, all from unflattering angles: a gallery of double chins and deep yawns and forehead zits.

 _This is the work of a husband_ , John says.

Helen does not know why John loves her so much, so intensely, so desperately. Maybe, if they had written their own wedding vows, he would have been forced to tell her.

She would like to think that she is ethereal and serene, a tranquil balm, a gentle breeze -- someone, in short, who soothes her stoic and silent husband. But it is an uncomfortable fact that John is clearly the most impressed with her when she is a little bit forceful, a little bit bossy, a little bit mean.

 _Not mean,_ John says one night, his breath stirring her hair. _You’re not mean, Helen. You just know yourself, and you know what you won’t tolerate. You have zero time for bullshit._

 _Mmm_ , Helen says sleepily. _I shouldn’t yell so much._

 _You never yell_ , John says. _You just make pronouncements with great authority. I like that._ He pressed his face against her shoulder. _I am trying to be more like that_.

It is odd to think that John would like to be more like her, because John seems so utterly and finally himself: a finished work, a completed man. 

He is the most capable person that Helen knows. He has taken apart and put together their ancient lawnmower more times than Helen can count. Over a period of months, he refines the art of being able to fit the duvet single-handedly into the duvet cover. Their dryer duct is always impeccably clean. On more than one occasion, Helen has come home to find John unscrewing the range hood in the kitchen. ( _The exhaust fan is getting a little squeaky_ , he always says.)

John always gives the impression of being able to solve problems, any problems, all problems -- and Helen has so few problems to offer him.

Part of her longs to keep him occupied, to keep him busy, to keep him distracted (although _from what_ is the question she never consciously answers, the shadow she never consciously sees). Part of her feels a little like Penelope, constantly unstitching a tapestry at night -- although in this case, it is Odysseus who loves to weave, who will patiently remake his wife's undone pattern every morning. 

Maybe that’s why Helen keeps buying jars of pickles, even though she does not like pickles. John Wick is good at getting the lids off pickle jars.


End file.
